


By Bird and Book

by StopTalkingAtMe



Category: Jane Eyre - All Media Types, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: AU, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopTalkingAtMe/pseuds/StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: Jane Eyre reimagined, set against the historical backdrop of the Revival of English Magic.





	1. Changeling

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as a Pride and Prejudice and Zombies-style take on Jane Eyre, but with the revival of English magic as depicted in the novel Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell as the backdrop. As such, it will follow canon closely, with  one or two major divergences.

## By Bird and Book

 

**Chapter One**

**Changeling**

 

**Gateshead House, November, 1806**

 

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. Aside from the bitterly cold wintry day, the ceaseless rain that streaked the windowpanes, Mrs Reed had heard tell of the disappearance of a second young woman from the village, and as everyone knew fairy abductions came in threes, she could not conceive of allowing her darlings outside lest they be stolen away to the Other Lands. So instead she gathered Eliza, John and Georgiana about her in the drawing room, the girls dressed in red silk dresses to protect them from enchantment. Even John she had induced to wear a scarlet scarf about his neck, although he kept complaining that it itched, hooking one finger beneath it to drag it away from his skin until his mother chided him gently and tucked it back with care.

Her husband Mr Reed had been a theoretical magician, a direct descendent, it is said, of Dr Martin Pale himself, but Mrs Reed was from London, where the only magicians were of the yellow-curtained, vagabonding kind, and she had an instinctive suspicion of magic of any kind, and in particular of fairies.

Perhaps if I had not been so small and slight, my features so pinched and mean – in short if I had not reminded her so much of my father's half-fairy-origins – then she might have been able to love me more. As it was, it was made clear that I was not welcome so I slipped into the breakfast room where I could be sure of finding a book to read. And one book in particular.

Taking the volume I sought from the bookshelf, I climbed into the window seat and drew the curtain shut. The curtain was of moreen, study and stiff and red, so that I was protected on both sides. Outside all was rain and mist and shadow and the whispering of the rain against the glass. On a day like this, and in a house like this, it might be easy to think that Mrs Reed was right, and the barrier between our world and the Other Lands fragile and easily breeched. And although I had never thought myself afraid of fairies – indeed there were times when I would have been grateful to be snatched away to the Other Lands as long as it meant I should not have to see John Reed again – today I was thankful for the red curtain, and for the protection it offered from their magic.

In this quiet seclusion I ran my hands in reverence over the book, Thomas Lanchester's _The Language of Birds_. It had belonged to my father, and was all I had left of him, an ancient volume of yellowing pages bound in soft red leather. I turned to the frontispiece and to the engraving of the Raven King, striding across a solitary moor with a raven in flight against the white sky. I shivered as I always did, and the rain's whispering seemed to deepen, taking on another tone. There were echoes in it, a falling and rising sound that sounded almost like speech, and I thought that if I closed my eyes and _listened_ , it might tell me how to slip out through the glass of the window and become part of the rain itself, a thing of mist and cloud and air, of river and beck and ocean.

It was the sort of magic that Thomas Lanchester spoke of, something wild and untamed. The sort of magic that was gone from England, that had not been seen since the age of the Argentine magicians, and it tugged gently at my heart as I turned the pages of my book – of my father's book – in contemplation. Many of its passages I knew by heart, and I did not have to read them to feel the thrill of their power; the imprint of those words already lay upon my heart, upon my soul. I already knew them to be true.

Instead I studied the pictures, searching for meaning in the ancient engravings: a circle of stones on a heath, each one crooked and leaning like an old forgotten gravestone; the moon hanging low in the sky above an ancient forest; a boat run aground on a shoal of sand; a room in a crumbling castle, where the ground was littered with bones; and worst of all a shrike impaling a small lizard upon the spine of a hawthorn tree. I shivered, thinking of the fairy tales Bessie would tell us when she happened to be in good humour, tales like _John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal-Burner_ , and while she spoke their spell would weave around us, and for a moment we would all three be transported to a world where the Raven King still ruled in the North and where magic was not gone from England.

It was the same spell that wrapped around me now, fashioned from the sound of the rain and the faint smell of dust on the curtain and the feel of the pages of the book beneath my fingers, but like all spells it had to end, and this one ended when the breakfast door opened.

“Madam Mope,” cried John Reed. He paused at the sight of the room apparently empty. “Where the dickens is she?”

I closed my eyes, praying he would not think to look behind the curtain. The window had fogged up with my breath and the air around me clung close. The rain seemed to take on a curious rhythmic beat, echoing the pounding of my heart against my ribs.

 _He will not find me_ , I wished, and the rain echoed this thought against the window. I pressed my hands laid flat against the book, against the words written centuries ago. _He will not find me_.

And if it had been John Reed alone my little spell might have worked, but I heard Eliza say, “She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.”

The rain and my heart together seemed to stop. I closed my eyes, and gently shut the book, before slipping out from behind the curtain. “What do you want?” I asked.

He sank down in an armchair. “Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'” he replied. “I want you to come here.” He gestured to a spot before him.

I obeyed, creeping forwards, while he tugged at the red scarf around his neck and sneered at me. He had inherited his mother's instinctive fear of fairies, and hating this sought to make me as afraid of him as he was of me. In this he had succeeded, for there was nothing I could do to him, while when he was not at school he was at his leisure to torment and bully me from morning to night. The servants would not interfere, and although he had both struck and insulted me in his mother's presence, she believed that I was the untrustworthy one. I had fairy-blood in my veins, which meant that I was cruel and capricious, a changeling in her home, to be feared and despised. To have me under her roof was to risk the household, because fairies could never be trusted.

I curled my fingers as I approached his chair, keeping my head down. I thought of the feel of the paper beneath my hands, of the savage magic within the pages of Thomas Lanchester's book and all he had written on the Other Lands and the Raven King. I wished with all my heart that I could could do magic, that I could punish this boy who tormented me. I wished I could bring the stones of the house thundering down on his head, or that I could task the river to bear him away to the sea. And perhaps he guessed something of what I was thinking because he struck me without warning, slapping me with a backhand so hard I almost fell.

“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he demanded.

“I was reading.”

“Show the book.”

I obeyed. Within the little alcove, my gaze moved to the window. It seemed almost as if something was written there in the intricate labyrinths the raindrops formed upon the glass. Beyond in the garden all was mist, and here the book was waiting for me. Soft red leather and within the world of ancient magic, of English magic. I picked it up and returned.

He took it from me, handling it roughly and sparing it little more than a cursory glance.

“You have no business to take our books,” he said.

 _It is my book_ , I thought. _It is my father's book._ But I swallowed back my anger, while John Reed continued to abuse me.

“You are a thief,” he said, “Like all fairies. You cannot be trusted with honest people's property. You ought to beg and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama’s expense, and steal our books–”

“It is _my_ book.”

He flushed red. “It's not your book, you little rat. It's _mine_. All the books in this house are mine. Everything in this house belongs to me, or will do in a few years.” He paused, gripping the book tight. My gaze darted towards it, to how he was gripping it with no care for how precious it was, how priceless. And it _was_ priceless; _The Language of Birds_ was a book _of_ magic, written by a practising magician, and there were no more practising magicians left in England. No new books _of_ magic had been written in England for centuries, only books about magic, which were not the same thing at all.

A sly little look crossed John Reed's face when he saw my glance at the book. “Go and stand by the door,” he ordered. “Out of the way of the mirror and the windows.”

And again, I obeyed, at first not realising what his intentions were until the moment he stood and drew back his arm to fling the book hard at me. I cried out in alarm and horror as it hit me and I stumbled, striking my head against the door frame. My vision blurred, first from the pain,and then from tears. I stared at the book, resting on the floor, and a strange kind of helpless rage surged through me.

Inside my heart something twisted.

I tasted the rain in my mouth, heard it whispering in my ear, and that rage began to gather, tightening into a hard knot of power in my chest. At John's tread behind me, I spun, saw a flash of startled fear in his eyes. I do not know what it was that he saw in my my face to make him so frightened, but he flinched away from me. A surging sensation tore through my body, and the sound of the rain drumming on the windows intensified, and it felt as if the blood running through my veins had become the rain itself and all its magic and power was mine to do with as I wished.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, a high edge of fear to his voice.

“I am doing magic.”

“You... you _can't_ , you little liar! You rat!”

I reached out, snatched the scarf from around his neck. He cried out in shock, jerking away, then stared at it in my hand, the little red scarf, his only protection from enchantment. I was breathing hard, filled with the power and magic of the rain. I don't know what happened then, but something must have, for he gave a high terrified scream, and fell backwards, crying out for his mother while I advanced, his scarf clutched tight in my hand. His terrified eyes fixed upon the sight of it in my hand as I curled my fist about it, and he began to scream–

I do not know what I would have done next. My body seemed hardly my own, the magic that enveloped me was borrowed, and I was wild with terror and hatred and fury. Had I meant to hurt him, or only to frighten him? I would never find out. His sisters had run for their mother, who now burst through the door, with Bessie and Miss Abbot close behind.

Mrs Reed's eyes widened in terror at the sight of her precious boy on the floor at the feet of the little changeling girl she feared and hated, and at the red scarf clutched in the hand of that little changeling girl. She saw only what she had long expected to see. At the expression in her eyes, the power of the rain deserted me, draining away in an instant. I sagged in fright, the scarf dropping from my hand.

As John scrambled to his feet and circled away from me, his fat cheeks scarlet, Mrs Reed bent to pick up the book. “She was trying to do fairy-magic, Mama,” he said. “She tried to curse me.” She stared at the book, her face very pale, and then she lifted her gaze to mine.

“Take her away to the red room,” she said, her voice and hollow. “And lock her in.”

 

###

 

I fought and struggled all the way. Each time I tried to calm myself, I saw the book – my book – on the floor, felt the sting on my forehead where it had struck me, and I felt an echo of that strange inhuman wildness which had overtaken me.

I had done magic. I had done _magic_. It could not be true; no magic had been done in England for three hundred years, but I had called upon the rain and it had answered. And even if I could not feel it now, it had left its mark on me. For the first time, wild and struggling against Bessie and Abbot as they dragged me to the red room, I saw myself as others must have seen me: as something unnatural. As something more than and less than human.

“For shame!” Abbot said. “I always said no good would come of having a creature with fairy-blood in the house! For shame, Miss Eyre, to curse a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! Your master.”

“Master?” I gasped. “How is he my master? Am I a servant?”

“No,” she snapped. “You are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep.”

They dragged me into the Red Room and thrust me upon the Ottoman by the the fireplace. “There,” she said. “Sit down, and think over your wickedness.”

At once I tried to stand up and they thrust me back down, and threatened to tie me down if I did not sit still. This was enough to cow me and I shrank down against the Ottoman, while they backed away from me, eyeing me warily.

“I've told Missus before about that child,” Miss Abbot said. “It's bad luck to have someone of fairy blood in the house, and she's a sly, wicked little thing. And to attack Master John!”

I looked pleadingly at Bessie, who did not seem quite so fearful and hateful as Abbot. “Why would you behave so, Miss Eyre? You ought to be grateful to Mrs Reed. She keeps you. If she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.”

And as they talked, as they reminded me of my dependency, of how humble and grateful and agreeable I ought to be, my hands clenched in my lap, and I thought about how I had done magic. I could still taste the rain on my tongue, could feel the keen edge of magic vibrating in every part of my body. It was only a memory now, but I itched to return to The Language of Birds, to revisit Thomas Lanchester's work. I would find new meaning there now, I was certain. But even as I thought this, the memories of the magic were growing distant, breaking apart like a dream after waking. It was slipping away from me, and I could not remember how I had done it.

I could not remember, and I was beginning to wonder if it had happened at all.

“Come, Bessie,” Abbot said. “We will leave her. I am glad that I am not in any way a fairy. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre. Your kind cannot help being wicked, and if you don't repent something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away.”

And with that they left, closing the door behind them. I flinched at the snap of the key in the lock.

The red room was seldom slept in, only when an influx of visitors to Gateshead Hall made it necessary. With the blinds always drawn, and the windows draped with heavy swags of fabric, the room existed in a state of perpetual twilight gloom. It was a place of silence, the room where Mr Reed had passed away, lying in the vast mahogany bed, which was hung with dark red damask curtains and carved with a myriad of birds and twining tendrils of ivy. Everywhere I looked was shadow, gathered about the bed, and around the heavy furniture.

I tore my gaze away from the darkness and sought to fix the memory of how the magic had felt in my mind, but with every moment that passed, I continued to forget, until there was nothing but the gloom and the shadows and my hands' white knuckles in my lap.

From where I sat on the Ottoman near the marble chimney piece, I could see my reflection in the looking glass between the windows. A slight pale little thing, half-hidden in the shadows myself, my white face and hands little more than blurs in the gloom. And in the mirror, it seemed almost as if the shadows were darkening around me, as if I might be lost entirely.

I half wished I would be, that they would come back to find me gone and the door still locked. The magicians of long-ago had been able to open up doorways to Faerie. They had been able to travel along the King's Roads as simply and as quickly as they might walk through a door. Why should I not do the same thing? John Reed was cruel to me. He abused and mistreated me, while his sisters and his mother and the servants looked away.

Georgiana was spoiled and spiteful, and Eliza headstrong and proud and selfish, and still they were indulged and respected, but I was a fairy, a changeling, and no matter that I tried so hard to please them, tried not to seem sly and untrustworthy, nothing that I did made one scrap of difference. I had fairy-blood in me and I was the daughter of a magician and I could not be trusted.

The room seemed to be growing darker. I glanced at my reflection, at that slight shivering shape in the mirror, whose face I could not see. Here the fire was seldom lit, and the air was so cold it leached away the last scrap of my courage. The rain drummed against the windows, muted by the heavy drapes, a low drumbeat that rumbled in my throat. Weak and dizzy from the blow, I turned my mind to the book, to _The Language of Birds_ , tried to imagine the feel of the leather beneath my hands, how it felt when I gripped the cover and turned the page to the frontispiece, to the etching of the Raven King striding over the moors.

He had left England centuries ago, but he was not gone. He was not dead. Someone like him, who had been raised in Faerie, who knew how to talk to the stones, the wind, the rain, someone like him could never die.

John Uskglass was said to snatch away Christians to Faerie, and they said abductions always came in threes. I had never been afraid of fairies – how could I be when I had fairy blood myself? I did not belong here and I was not welcome here. I was not like Eliza or Georgiana, not pretty or careless or bold; I had taken after my father, and as far as they were concerned, he had taken after his. They did not love me, and I did not love them, and I began to wonder if I should not be happier in Faerie? Many magicians had gone there after all, centuries ago.

And I had done magic. I had–

A bell tolled. It was a far off distant sound, low and mournful, and one which I was certain I had never heard before. I exhaled, my eyes widening at the sound, my eyes darting to the mirror.

My courage deserted me.

Perhaps I was wicked. Perhaps I was a cruel and capricious little thing. Because I had meant to hurt John Reed. I had wanted to make him cry out and beg for mercy, as he had done to me countless times before. It was wicked to want to do that, and it was wicked to wish I could be snatched away, and still all I could think of was the etching in that book, of the Raven King and his messenger, the black bird against the white sky.

The Raven King. Oh God, the Raven King.

The bell tolled again, and a sensation of frost seemed to burn over my skin, raising goose flesh and making me shiver. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, saw the shadows grow darker still and my own reflection paler and less distinct, as if I was sinking into the shadows, as if they were gathering around me. I would disappear, I thought. The shadows would envelop me and I would be gone.

With a soft cry I stood, and moved forwards out of the gloom. My reflection moved with me, but I had the curious fear that it was no longer my reflection, that the mirror looked instead on some other room, similar to this one but changed in some way that I could not define, and the child in the mirror was not me, but a wicked little thing, as heartless and cruel as Mrs Reed thought me. A thing of spite and malice, who would pinch and bite and rend, dig her sharp little nails into flesh and–

The bell tolled again. Louder now. Closer. And an image flashed through my mind. The images I had seen countless times in _The Language of Bird_ s, a vast swollen moon hanging low over an ancient forest, and hanging from the trees were bodies, and the shrike working the body of a lizard down onto the spike of a hawthorn tree, only it was not the body of a lizard any longer but of a man, his skin strangely mottled as if with woad.

“No,” I whispered, and the reflection in the mirror echoed me, mockingly, with a sly little smile. _No, no, no._

And deeper in the mirror, something was coming. The mirror clouded over as something formed just on the other side of the glass. I saw dark hills and what might have been an old Roman road, rutted and crumbling, and a shape coming towards me along that road beneath an overcast sky. A man with black hair and black eyes and black clothes, his helm mantled with raven feathers, and behind him a seething darkness which surged past him, until it filled the sky. Until I could make out the shapes in the darkness and I could see the black mass was a vast flock of ravens. Millions of them. So many they blotted out the sky.

They crashed through the mirror and burst into the room, the sound of their wings and their cawing deafening. And behind them still was the road, still the sense of something coming for me. I screamed, and flung up my hands to protect my face. Something scraped against my cheek with a sharp stab of agony, and I flung myself to the ground, rolling into a ball, while the ravens continued to pour from the mirror, claws scratching at my neck, my clothes, my scalp.

I screamed, and the bell tolled on.

 

###

 

Waking felt like struggling to surface from a deep lake, my body weighed down by my sodden clothes, and in the shadows I could still hear the mournful bell, and it seemed to be coming from the depths of the lake. Surfacing, I saw the sky above black with ravens and at the edge of the lake a man stood waiting.

I woke to find myself in my own bed, staring at the nursery fire with its guard. Someone was talking, but my thoughts were tangled as a thicket; I could not seem to make out what they were saying, and for an instant I thought that I was in the wrong place, that I had been carried into the reflection and had not escaped the red room at all.

A soft voice whispered reassurances, and I closed my eyes, my fears slipping away. A few moments later, I felt well enough to open my eyes again. This was the nursery, not the strange shore of some desolate lake or the room inside the mirror. Bessie sat by the bed, regarding me with concern.

“Do you feel as if you could sleep again, Miss?” she asked. There was a caution about her, and I wondered if she knew or suspected anything of what had happened in the red room. Had she seen the ravens or had they vanished back into the world of the mirror? But if she had seen them, surely she would have said something.

“I will try,” I said, and still she hesitated. _She knows,_ I thought. She knew or suspected something had happened, something fearful.

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”

I shook my head and thanked her. She drew back, watching unhappily as I settled down, but still she seemed unwilling to go.

“I saw him,” I whispered, and she frowned.

“Saw who, Miss?”

“The Raven King. He was in the mirror.”

She drew in a sharp breath, then reached out and stroked my hair. “You must have been dreaming, Miss. That's all it was. A dream.” But her face was pale and her hand was trembling and I do not think she believed her own words.

She left me then, and when I slept I dreamed of John Uskglass and a sky black with ravens.

 

###

 

Some days passed before I felt able to leave the nursery again. The incident in the red room had left my nerves shaken. Finally, however, my anxiety about what had happened to my book became too much to bear. I remembered the way Mrs Reed had stared down at the book in her hands and the terrible look on her face, full of terror and fear, and although I would have stayed in the nursery, wrapped warm by the fire, I had to know.

When Bessie left for the kitchen, I ventured down to the breakfast room in search of my father's precious book. Mrs Reed had gone out in the carriage with her three children, so I should have been quite safe, but somehow I no longer felt so. I did not think I would ever feel safe in that house again. Whenever I passed a mirror I had to turn my gaze away, shuddering, afraid of seeing a sky black with countless birds and a man in his raven-mantled helm.

The book was not in the breakfast room, nor could I find it in the library, and as I paced the shelves, I realised I could find none of my Uncle Reed's other books of and about magic either.

They were all gone, and a deep feeling of unease filled me. The thought that Mrs Reed might have destroyed them ran through my mind, but she was superstitious and the ancient crime of book-murder, for which the punishment was hanging, would have been quite beyond her. I hoped only that she had locked the books away, and that they were not lost to me completely, but I felt certain that they were. With this thought in my mind, I ventured to the kitchen to find Bessie and to ask her if she knew what had happened to my uncle's books.

I had to pass a mirror in the hall, and began to turn my head aside, afraid of what I might see, when the grandfather clock began to chime. I cried out in terror, jerking towards the noise, my heart skittering so quickly in my chest I thought I might die.

But it was only the clock striking one. I shuddered, and glanced nervously around at the mirror behind me, certain I would see that spiteful little reflection sneering at me. Instead it was only my own face, drawn and pale, and with tears of fright on my cheeks, and I moved quickly on, hurrying towards the kitchen, hoping Bessie would be there.

She was, but there was someone else sitting at the table with her. A man I had never seen before, and whose appearance made the low embers of my fear flare suddenly brighter.

He was lean and dark, a dangerous-looking sort of man, unshaven and gypsyish, with long black hair which fell raggedly about his pale face. It was as if the Raven King himself had stepped fully formed from my waking vision in the red room and now sat at the kitchen table. As the scullery maid set a tankard of beer before him, he gave a nod and thanked her, and his voice was as dark as his hair and his eyes and his clothes, and his accent was clearly that of Yorkshire. And in my dazed, frightened state, I was able to think only one thing: _It is John Uskglass. He has come for me._

At my intake of breath the man glanced up and saw me cowering in the doorway. I shrank back, about to flee, but it was too late: he had seen me. “It's all right, girl,” he called out. “You've nothing to fear from me.”

And now that he had called me, I could not escape. Reluctantly, I slunk inside the kitchen, and although his appearance terrified me, I was unable to look away from him. He watched me as I edged around the kitchen table, trying to keep it between us.

“This is Miss Jane Eyre, sir,” Bessie explained. “Her mother was the late Mr Reed's sister, and Mrs Reed has taken her in. Miss Eyre, this is Mr Childermass.”

“You've been crying, Miss Eyre,” he said. “Are you frightened of me?”

I hesitated, fidgeting, wishing that I could escape from the kitchen without answering the question, but I could see no way of doing so. “Yes, sir.”

“Miss Jane,” Bessie said, reprovingly, but Mr Childermass lifted his hand and she fell still, her eyes resting on his face.

“It's no matter,” he said. “I dare say I am a frightening sort of man to a child. Was there anything in particular about my appearance that startled you, Miss Eyre? My hair, perhaps?”

“It... it was no one thing, sir,” I said, but he continued to watch me shrewdly. “Just for a moment, I mistook you for him.”

“For whom?”

“John Uskglass, sir,” I said, and he stared at me in surprise. Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not this.

I shrank back, afraid he would be angry, but then his eyes flashed with amusement and he smiled, a strange one-sided smile, mocking and delighted all at once. “You thought _I_ was the Raven King?”

“Miss,” Bessie said, her eyes wide and shocked, “apologise to Mr Childermass.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “No, she must not apologise. I am a man of Yorkshire, and the Raven King is my king. It's an honour to be mistaken for him.” And then to me: “But what do _you_ have to fear from him, Miss Eyre?”

“I saw him, sir. He came to take me away.”

His smile did not slip, but the glittering amusement vanished from his eyes. His voice sharpened. “You saw him? Where?”

Bessie sighed, shaking her head. “She's a fanciful child, sir. She lies.”

“I do not lie, Bessie,” I protested. “It's Georgiana who lies. I called for him, like in Thomas Lanchester's book, and he came.”

“You should not make up stories, Miss–” Bessie began.

“Let the girl speak.” And this sharpness in his voice was new. It snapped like a whip and there was power in it. I felt a strange shivery sensation ripple down my arms, raising goosebumps on my skin. The mocking amusement in his voice was gone, and although he had not moved, although he still sat back in his chair like a lord, an eagerness seemed to have tightened every sinew in his body. A startled expression crossed Bessie's face, and she sank back, cowed and blinking. “Tell your tale, Miss Eyre.”

“I saw him in the red room, sir,” I said, no more able to disobey him than Bessie was. “In my Uncle Reed's room. He was in the mirror. A bell rang, a King's Road opened up, and I saw him...”

“How did you know it was the Raven King?”

“There were birds. Ravens, sir. One scratched my cheek.” I pointed to the healing welt on my cheek, and he beckoned me forward and gently took hold of my chin with his calloused fingers, turned my head to examine it.

“She was in a fit of terror, sir,” Bessie said, unable to stay silent for long. Her voice was softer now, a little gentler. “Most likely she did it to herself without realising.”

“Maybe,” he said, still frowning at me. He released me. “What did he look like?”

“Like you, sir. He had dark hair and was very pale, and he was dressed all in black.”

Did he believe me? I could not tell. There was doubt in his eyes, but a kind of hunger too, a longing for my tale to be true.

“You spoke of Thomas Lanchester's book,” he said, after a few moments of silence. “You mean _The Language of Birds_?”

“Yes, sir. It belonged to my father. It is the only thing I have of him.”

There was a flash of something in his eyes that might have been pity, but his expression did not change. “I'm afraid it belongs to my master now, Miss Eyre. He has bought it from Mrs Reed, along with several other volumes of and about magic.”

Helpless hopeless fury flooded me, but there was nothing I could do. I sank back in silence, tears prickling in my eyes, hands knotted together.

“Do you make a habit of reading magical volumes, Miss Eyre?” he asked.

“I have read all my Uncle Reed's books of magic, sir,” I said. My voice was numb, hollow; the loss of The Language of Birds made my throat ache. “Except _De Generibus Artium Magicarum_ , because it is in Latin and I cannot read Latin.” I swallowed. “Have you purchased them _all_ , sir?”

“My master has. He's not discriminating when it comes to books of magic.” He paused, regarding me thoughtfully. “The Raven King, where did you say you saw him?”

 

###

 

At the red room he went in first. With Bessie behind me, I hovered at the door, too nervous to cross over the threshold into that terrible room. Mr Childermass moved slowly to the mirror, a strange sort of reverence about his movements, which only served to make me more fearful still. He believed me. Or, if he did not quite believe, then at least he had a suspicion that what I was saying might be true, and that possibility filled me with a terrible dread. If I went into that room, the King's Road might open up once more and I could be snatched away to Faerie and enchanted.

He raised a hand to the surface of the mirror, tilting his head as he studied his reflection. He didn't quite touch the glass, but snatched his hand away, and stood for a moment, as if in thought. “Come in, Miss Eyre,” he told me.

I held back, gripping onto the door frame. Bessie pressed me forwards, hissing, “Do as Mr Childermass says, Jane,” and I could not disobey them both. I stumbled into the room on legs unsteady as a colt's. He watched me, I think, in the mirror as I drew closer. My heart raced so fast in my chest I wanted to cry out with the terror of it. I stopped partway, certain if I took another step I would crumple to the ground.

The air seemed charged about me, thick with an undefinable energy, not so strong as it had been when the King's Road opened up, but still so thick I could almost taste it, and I wondered that he could not.

“Come forward, Miss Eyre,” he said.

“I... I don't think I can, sir.” But I took a step, and another, until I stood beside him at the mirror. His hand rested on my shoulder. He smelled of tobacco and of horse and of the rain itself. Side by side we stared into the mirror.

“Good girl,” he said and the mocking edge to his voice was gone. There was a strange sort of gentleness about him now, but his hand felt heavy on my shoulder and his eyes were still hungry and eager. “Tell me what you see.”

“I don't see anything, sir.”

“Look deeper,” he told me. And as my eyes darted to meet his reflection's gaze: “Into the mirror, girl, not at me. Tell me what you see.”

And far off I heard the distant ringing of a bell. I shivered; it was a mournful sound, and I thought of the shrike, the little body impaled on a spike. “I see the room, sir. Nothing more.”

“And?”

“And...” And as I stared deeper, only distantly aware of his reflection and Bessie's, how she was holding back now, a hand pressed over her mouth. She seemed to have taken on all my fear, all my dread, for I no longer felt afraid. Something was spreading through me now, the same prickling sensation of power which had overtaken me when John Reed had thrown the book at me.

The reflection of the room in the mirror was shrouded with shadows. And instead of my eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, if anything the shadows seemed to be thickening about us, gathering like folded cloth, until our pale faces were nothing more than smears upon the glass, our eyes empty holes. And in the very depths of the mirror a strange speck of light had appeared, only a brief flicker at first, but it was growing stronger and steadier, drawing closer. My breath speeded up, and Mr Childermass's hand tightened upon my shoulder. He murmured something – I do not know what it was he said, but his tone was encouraging, and even so, underlying it, there was that urgency.

The bell rang again, and now it was louder, much louder. I flinched and he held me steady, and I could see the speck of light now, I could see what it was. It was a road, oh God, it was the road again, and something was coming for me. Not the Raven King now, but something else, something terrible. I tried to close my eyes, tried to tear myself away from the mirror, but a strange languor had gripped my body and I could not seem to make myself move.

A sudden flurry of noise and commotion shattered the spell. Bessie cried out, startled, and Mr Childermass released me. I sagged, gasping, cast one terrified glance into the mirror, then tore myself away.

The cause of the noise was a bird, and as Mr Childermass swung around, his clothes brushed against me like a burst of wings, and for an instant I was back in the storm of birds, the chaos around my head. As Bessie ran to the window to let out the bird, he swore, staring up at the bird, and it was clear to see what he must have been thinking. Although he did not seem like a man easily given over to superstition, he was still a man of the North, and he must have been taken by the notion that it was a raven that had been sent by John Uskglass himself.

But then the curtains were open, the blinds raised, and although it was a cold overcast day, the light was almost blinding. We could all see it was not a raven at all, but a magpie, and with the curtains open it was easy to see what had happened from the dark scattering of soot on the rug before the hearth: the bird had come down the chimney.

He helped Bessie usher it out, while I shrank against the wall, creeping towards the door. I was afraid that once they had rid the room of the bird, he might make me look in the mirror again, and I was afraid of what I might see. I never wanted to look in that mirror again.

Once the bird was gone and the window closed once more Bessie murmured something I did not hear. He laughed, a self-mocking sort of sound, and in it I could hear the release of tension. “For a moment I thought it was,” he admitted, turning away from the window.

“John Uskglass himself?” she teased, her eyes lingering on his face as if she were quite entranced by him.

“Aye,” he said, and as he turned his eyes caught on me. His face twisted in a smile. “And young Miss Eyre the first practical magician to open up a King's Road since the sixteenth century. Wouldn't my master be surprised to hear that?”

“I did tell you she was fanciful, sir,” Bessie said. “But she can't help it. I expect it is her father's influence and the fairy-blood in her.” Her gaze roamed around the room, resting on the mess of the rug, her smile vanishing. “Oh, look at this room.”

“Don't blame the girl,” he told her. “It was my fault, not hers.”

Bessie was stooping to pick a feather from the carpet by the Ottoman. She shot him a strange look as she straightened up. “It was nobody's fault, sir. You did not call that bird down the chimney, and Miss Jane certainly did not.”

He looked a little taken aback. “No,” he said, slowly. “I suppose not, but...” And then he broke off, staring at the feather in her hand. He took it from her, turning it over in his hands, his brows lowering into a frown. It had not come from the magpie, as it was entirely black.

It was a raven's feather.

Mr Childermass's gaze turned my way, not angry, no longer mocking or amused, but filled with a strange glittering darkness.

I did the only thing I could.

I fled.


	2. Roses in the Snow

**Chapter Two**

**Roses in the Snow**

**Gateshead House, November, 1806**

I had feared that Mr Childermass might send Bessie to bring me back to the red room, but instead he left Gateshead Hall. From the nursery window I watched him mount his horse, a sturdy, solid animal with saddle-bags slung across its flanks. I knew they must contain my Uncle Reed's books of magic, as well as _The Language of Birds_. I could not blame him, and nor could I blame his master, who did not know this latter book was mine, but I still felt a keen pang strike my heart at its loss.

As his horse took a few sideways steps, Mr Childermass turned and gazed up at the nursery window. And despite my fear, for my hands were still trembling at the memory of what had happened in the red room, I wanted to hammer on the glass to stop him from leaving, to call him back and beg him to tell me all he knew. Of magic, of Faerie, but most of all of the Raven King.

I think he would have obliged. I had not imagined the hunger in his eyes, which I now realise only reflected my own, but before I could act he took the reins and kicked his horse's flanks and he was gone.

I heard Bessie's tread upon the stairs, and shrank against the window seat, afraid that she might be angry with me for having run away. Instead she was smiling and happy and wistful as she crossed to the drawer containing scraps of silk in every shade and hue, and as she began to sew a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll she sang a ballad, her voice sweet and sorrowful.

"Her arms were all too feeble,  
Though she claimed to love me so,  
The Raven King stretched out his hand,  
She sighed and let me go.

The land is all too shallow,  
It is painted on the sky,  
And trembles like the wind-shook rain,  
When the Raven King passed by.

For always and for always,  
I pray remember me,  
Upon the moors, beneath the stars,  
With the King's wild company."

The song was a mournful one, the tale of a young woman snatched from her parents and stolen away to Faerie, and my eyes filled with tears which spilled over my cheeks. Outside the watery November sun warmed my shoulder through the glass.

"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," Bessie said, once she had come to the end of the song.

"You're not angry with me, Bessie?"

"Why should I be angry, Miss?"

"I thought that you might scold me because I ran away when the bird came down the chimney. "

"It gave me quite a start myself." She gave a soft laugh, and tugged at the needle, drawing a length of thread through a scrap of golden silk. "I half-expected it to be a raven. Thank goodness it only turned out to be a magpie."

"I'm glad you're not angry," I said, and as she seemed at that moment the prettiest, kindest creature in the world, and unlikely to scold or chide me for my childish curiosity, I asked her, my voice trembling with trepidation, about Mr Childermass. And, since it seemed that Mr Childermass was precisely the subject she longed to talk about, she told me all she knew.

It was not much, but I learned that he dealt with the affairs of a wealthy gentleman named Mr Norrell, who collected books of magic and owned an estate in Yorkshire called Hurtfew Abbey.

"Is Mr Norrell a magician, Bessie?" I asked, feeling certain that he must be.

"I'm sure I don't know, Miss," she said.

But I knew. Only a magician would have cause to buy so many books of magic, and he must be a terrible one indeed to employ a man of business so wild and disreputable in appearance as Mr Childermass. From Mrs Reed I knew of the ragtag magicians in London, with their booths draped with grimy yellow curtains, who sold charms and cast curses and told fortunes. They were wild and frightening in appearance, and from these descriptions I built up an impression of the dark and brooding Mr Norrell in my mind's eye, picturing him perhaps with a beard and flashing eyes like Arctic ice.

Even the name of his house – Hurtfew Abbey – filled me with unease. It was a strange, eerie name, which raised images of a lonely desolate house on the moors, with crumbling towers like a ruined castle, and ravens perched on its battlements, filled with spiralling staircases, and labyrinthine passages where one could get lost forever,

As the days and weeks passed I dreamed many times of Hurtfew Abbey and of Mr Childermass walking its corridors while I followed behind, silent as a shadow. A silvery thread spooled out behind me, connecting me to my sleeping body. Mr Childermass would lead me to a comfortable library with carved bookcases of English oak, where a fire burned in a grate and a figure sat in a high-backed armchair, wreathed with shadows and always, _always,_ bent over a book. This then was the magician who had taken my book.

I could never make out his face or form, could only see how he turned the pages of the book open on his lap, as I had done many times before, and I thought I might be able to read the pages over his shoulder without him realising. I never quite managed it though; each time as I crept closer he lifted his head as if he sensed my presence. And then I was slipping back along the length of the silver thread like Theseus fleeing the labyrinth, through the corridors of the Abbey and back to my body, to my own little world. To my crib and to the separate closet in the nursery where I was now expected to sleep.

Since my attempt to use magic upon John Reed the line Mrs Reed drew between me and her darlings had grown more marked. She rarely addressed me, and, as I was to eat my meals alone and pass all of my time in the nursery, I seldom saw her, yet when I did I could feel how she watched me with suspicion. As for her fear, it had faded a little. I think she must have begun to think how foolish it was to think a child like me might be able to do magic, and with my Uncle Reed's books gone from the house, she began to doubt. Still if her fear of me receded, her distrust and aversion to my presence did not.

When Christmas came I was excluded from the festivities, and since Bessie would usually retreat to the kitchen to celebrate with the other servants, I was left to my own devices, and could either stay in the silent nursery, or creep to the top of the stairs, where I could sit like a spy and listen to the music below, to the soft hum of conversation and the low drifting laughter. When the drawing room door was closed, I could imagine the drawing room itself was empty and the distant sound of gaiety came from entirely another world, perhaps from the mirror in the hallway.

Once the clinking sound of the glass on the footman's tray sounded exactly like the tinkling of bells – a thousand bells, each as fragile and delicate as the flower of a foxglove – and a long stretching shadow seemed to claw its way along the hall towards me. I was struck with the certain notion that I was being watched, that the figure of a child had climbed from the mirror on the wall, and now stood watching me: that if I turned my head only an inch to the left I would see her hidden in shadow, with only her teeth – sharp, white little teeth – visible in a shaft of light from the hallway below.

I could feel her creeping closer, quiet as a cat, her bare feet making no sound on the rug, but the air grew chill around me, my heart began to pound, and I could still hear the chiming of the bells. A sudden burst of mocking laugher from below seemed directed at me. Closer and closer she crept, and I knew she was stretching out her hand, her fingers hooking into claws, and any moment I would feel a brushing touch against the nape of my neck and then, and _then_ –

With a soft cry I sprang to my feet. Heard a soft, spiteful little chuckle as I fled along the hall and back to the nursery, where the fire had burned to red embers, and without bothering to undress, I scrambled beneath the covers of my crib and curled up, clinging to my little doll, my eyes squeezed shut.

Since Mr Childermass had bade me look into the mirror, I had been unable to look into them, afraid of what I might see. Until that moment in the hall I had thought the fairies – and the Raven King – had forgotten all about me. While I was awake at least.

But in my dreams everything was different. Every night I dreamed, if not of Hurtfew Abbey and the magician I had never met, then of a lake and a sky black with ravens. Of the rain filling me like an over-brimming cup. And of crystalline snow flakes falling from a sky as black as a raven's feather, each one a frozen kiss against my cheek.

I dreamed of Faerie. I dreamed of Yorkshire. Once I even dreamed of the Raven King's kingdom on the far side of Hell, although that I am thankful to say I do not remember.

Something was coming, something that would change everything, and it frightened and exhilarated me in equal measure.

* * *

 

One night I dreamed of Mr Childermass standing beside a hawthorn tree, cutting the flesh of his arm with a knife, and of something lying half-frozen in the snow at his feet. I dreamed of a man with sallow, sickly skin turning over cards in a filthy ale-house. I saw a man with black skin and a noble bearing, dressed in servant's livery but with a crown upon his head. He stood before a mirror, and I wanted to call out to him, to beg him to step away from the glass, because mirrors were not safe, but something choked me, stopping the words before I could utter them. A fragrance filled my mouth, and something rose up in my throat. There was a sensation in my mouth like silk, and a scent so strong I could not breathe. I bent double and retched onto the snow. At first it was just petals that spilled through my lips, then tightly bunched flower buds, and finally the blooming heads of roses, each as large as my fist. They fell onto the snow around my feet. In the darkness they looked as black as blood

I woke with a strange strangled cry, felt in my throat an echo of that choking sensation. But I could breathe, oh God, at least I could breathe. I sucked in breath after breath, crying, and hugging my doll to me. _Roses_ , I thought, _for silence._

" _It has not happened yet."_

The voice sounded so much like my own thoughts that at first I thought I had spoken aloud without realising. But as I recovered, I realised I was not alone in my closet. Something perched on the wall above my crib, clinging to it like a lizard or a bird. It was little more than a shadow, a hunched shape whose form I could not make out, but which I knew had claws and teeth and glittering eyes filled with malice.

"What are you?" I asked.

"Say, rather, 'Who are you?'," it said, and its voice was filled with spite. There was an echo of John Reed's voice about it, deliberate I think. It was using the person I feared most to taunt me. "You ought to have more respect for me, little magician."

"I'm sorry."

"Why did you summon me, little magician? Why did you call me from my _brugh_?"

I swallowed, sitting up. "I didn't mean to. I only looked into the mirror."

"You must have done more than that or I should not be here. And if you do not know what it is you did then you ought to be more careful. I do not like this place. I do not like these people." It crept closer, a shadow swarming across the wall with the twitching rapid movements of a spider. "And I'm not altogether certain that I like you."

The shadow reached the crib and paused, seeming to regard me. A dark shape snaked out, moving so slowly I held my breath. It tested the bedding of the crib, very near where my ankle lay beneath the blanket. I gasped and snatched my leg back, rolling into as tight a ball as I could manage. The shadow-thing laughed, a cruel spiteful sound, and suddenly it swarmed onto the crib. I felt the feather bed dip beneath me and heard the hiss of its breathing, saw within the dark shape its eyes shining. A shadow fell across my arm, and I felt a spiteful pinch, nails digging into my flesh, rather like Georgiana might pinch me.

"Why do you not dance, little magician? Why do you hide here while they celebrate below?"

"Because I am not welcome," I said softly.

"They treat you very poorly. Why do you allow it? Why–" It drew ever closer, bringing the dark mass than might have been its face up to mine. There was a smell, a fragrance of flowers left for too long in a vase, perfumed but with an underlying stink of rot. It hissed, "Why do you not punish them?"

Perhaps Mrs Reed was right about me being a wicked little thing, because my first thought was not that I should be expected to forgive the Reeds, but that I was powerless. "I cannot."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because I do not know how."

There was a triumphant little hiss, and the shadow-thing's eyes gleamed. It drew closer still until the stink of it was so thick around me I could taste its sour rotting smell on my tongue. "Forgive me," it said, and pinched me again, harder this time. "I took you for a powerful magician to have summoned me hence. Now I see I was mistaken, and still..." No pinch now, but its hand closed around my wrist like a manacle. "You are very lucky I am so generous. I could show you how, little magician. Even though I see you are very small and weak and insignificant. Only take me on as your fairy-servant, and I could teach you how to do magic. I could teach you how to punish your enemies. That fat little boy who torments you, you could set wasps to burrowing beneath his skin to eat him from the inside out. His sisters you could enslave so that they would do only your bidding and you could torture and humiliate them at your leisure as they do you. And as for the _mother_ –"

"No!" I squeezed my eyes shut as these words conjured up images of my cousins suffering at my bidding.

" _No_?" It drew back, coiling up like a snake about to strike.

"I... I do not want that. I do not want to torture them. Only to... Only to..." I did not know what I wanted, only that binding myself to a creature like this would surely be a form of indentured servitude worse than I currently suffered at Gateshead Hall. "I want only that they should leave me alone."

"You are very ungrateful, little magician." Another pinch, harder this time, so fierce I cried out, and tears rushed to my eyes.

"I'm sorry. I do not mean to be." There was silence for a long moment. So long I began to think I was half-dreaming, that the shadow spilling across the crib was nothing more than a trick of the light. And then it moved and spoke again and I felt something scratch gently at my cheek.

"Perhaps," the thing whispered, musingly, "perhaps you only need to be convinced. Perhaps I should show you what I can do, little magician, Would that convince you of my steadfastness?"

"Please do not. I don't want you to hurt anyone," I cried, but the shadow-creature was gone. There was only the blanket bunching on my lap.

* * *

 

**Gateshead House, January, 1807**

I dreamed of snow and woke to a world blanketed in white and to the windows of the nursery rimed with ice. In the nursery I found Georgiana sitting before the mirror, brushing her curls, but the reflection in the glass was not Georgiana. It cast me a sly look, its eyes hooding, and as I drew in a sharp, fearful breath its lips curled in a cruel smile. And then it was gone and there was only Georgiana regarding me with contempt. With her hair woken with flowers and feathers she looked like something of a fairy herself.

"You should not sit before the mirror," I warned her.

"Mama says you are not to talk to us," she rejoined. "I shall tell her if you do."

Very likely she would tell Mrs Reed whether I spoke to her or not, but it was clear she would not listen, and so I moved to the window and knelt on the seat to breathe on the glass and stare out over the gardens of Gateshead Hall, transformed by a blanket of white. Below I saw a figure pressing against the trunk of the cherry tree, its glittering eyes fixed on the nursery window. Georgiana, I saw, had all but forgotten me, busy weaving dusky silk roses through her golden hair. I shivered at the sight of it, remembering my dream and the roses scattered on the snow. She did not notice as I slipped from the room and hurried down the stairs like a shadow.

In the hall below I froze at the sound of Mrs Reed's voice but she only called to Abbott, and I hurried past the doorway to the drawing room and out into the garden. It was snowing again, the sky above as glassy as a mirror, and the snow flakes caught in my hair and on my clothes. Every sound was muffled by the weight of snow, and with the white blanket that lay over all, Gateshead itself seemed transformed, into somewhere much older and wilder. With no coat, only my shawl wrapped around my shoulders, I shivered and shrank back against the house as I looked towards the cherry tree and the dark shape clinging to its trunk.

I was not hardy like my cousins, but a slight little thing, with scant protection against the cold. The frozen air nipped at my fingers, reminding me how weak and helpless I was, and I was still shaken after what had passed in the red room, my ragged nerves on edge. So no wonder then that I was frightened. The fairy-creature sought to make an ally – or a slave – of me, and, while Mrs Reed's unfair judgement of me stung to the quick, I cannot deny that fairies were dangerous creatures, quick to take offence and savage in retaliation.

I had no doubt the Reeds would be in danger if the fairy-spirit remained at Gateshead House, and while I had not intended to draw it here I was still responsible. If I had brought it here, perhaps I could persuade it to leave.

I drew a breath and struck out across the lawn, but I found no figure by the tree. It was only a trick of light and shadow, a shadow cast by the heavy weight of snow on a branch. This discovery made me falter, and I wondered if I had not dreamed it all, or if what I had seen in the red room had caused me to lose my wits. At this possibility, tears rose to my eyes again, and only the sight of a little robin on a branch of the tree eased my mood. A sense of calm took over me. I wished I had a crumb or two to feed it, but I had nothing.

The bird regarded me with its bright black eyes, took a hopping jump along the branch. I held out my hand, hoping it might perch upon my fingers, but instead it took wing, flew down to the ground before me... and vanished.

My breath formed on the air as I gasped, and at the sound the robin reappeared, leaving bird tracks in the snow. It stopped, a few feet away to ruffle its feathers, and then it took another hopping jump and it was gone. This time my eyes were able to follow it, and I saw how the snow itself made a doorway upon the world which the robin was able to step through.

I was aware of a carriage drawing up to the house, but it seemed very far away. Indeed, the house seemed more distant than it ought to be, as if I had walked for a mile or two rather than a little way through the gardens. All my attention was focused on the world beyond the snow. It was as if I could take another step, this way rather than that, and slip between the snowflakes like the robin and be gone, not only from Gateshead but from this land entirely.

And I longed to do so. As I stepped closer to where the robin had vanished, I felt a tug at my heart. I could see the Other Land now, hidden beneath Gateshead, which seemed to have grown insubstantial, as it it were a pallid watercolour with no life or depth. Through the snow, I could see a forest carpeted with bluebells, a place where the sun streamed down through the canopy, casting dappled shadows over everything.

It would be warm there, I thought, and safe. All I had to do was take that first step...

I felt flakes of snow on my lips, remembering that mirrors were not the only road to Faerie.

Thomas Lanchester had written of it in _The Language of Birds_ , how even the smallest, most insignificant bird such as a robin or a starling could pass between this world and the Other Lands as simply as breathing. So why was I fighting this? The Raven King had learned his magic from the rain and the land that surrounded him, so why should I not do the same? I took a step, and then another. One more would take me from this world, and then–

A hard shove on my back sent me sprawling in the snow.

"Trying to do magic again, you little rat?" John Reed had crept up behind me, his breath visible on the air. His cheeks were very red with the cold. "I shall tell my Mama you were trying to cast fairy-curses again."

"Leave me alone," I said. "I wasn't!"

"Yes, you were, you liar. I saw you,"

And then in the snow behind him I saw the fairy, not a shadow any longer, but a girl as slight and pale I was. She looked very like me, although her features would be called beautiful had they not been twisted in spite. She sat crouched in the snow, dressed only in a thin muslin dress. Her feet were bare and as white as the snow itself, and her fingers very long and thin and tipped with dark hooked nails. In fact they were not, I saw, nails at all, but thorns growing from her nail beds. Her teeth were very white and sharp as needles, and her hungry gaze was fixed on John.

"Don't," I whispered, and John Reed thought that I was talking to him.

"I can do what I like," he told me, bunching his hands into fists. As I tried to stand, he knocked me back down, so hard I was dazed. My hands rested in the snow, my reddened fingers numbed by the cold. He struck me again, and my fingers dug into the snow. Beneath I felt the hard frozen earth, and a door inside my chest burst open. The magic sang like a high clear note, surging up from the ground through my fingers.

As John drew his fist back to hit me again, the magic flashed. Briars grew out of the snow, snaking around his arms and legs. He cried out, first in surprise, and then in fear as he tugged at the briars and realised he was held fast. He turned a look on me, his eyes wide in fright. "Let me go," he cried, trying to sound angry, but his voice was high with fear.

I pushed myself to my feet, breathing hard, with the song still ringing in my head. The fairy had stopped creeping closer, and her lips peeled away from her white little teeth in a savage grin. He continued to struggle, then cried out in sudden pain. Blood stained his shirt where a thorn had bit into his skin

"I shall tell my Mama that you have done magic, and then you'll be sorry," he said, and the fairy's smile slipped as her eyes glittered with rage.

"Punish him, little magician. Turn him into a song-bird," she hissed, "and put him in a pie. Or turn him into a fly and trap him in a web and let a spider suck him dry as a husk."

John Reed could hear her. He turned his head, but she was creeping up behind him and the briars held him so tightly he could not see. "Who's there?" he cried out.

The fairy sniggered. "He will tell on you, the sneaking little brat. He will tell his _mama_."

"No, he won't," I said, trembling, although I knew that he would. Why could they not just leave me alone? I did everything in my power to stay out of their way, and still they tormented me.

"Yes, he will. Punish him, little magician. Or I will do it for you."

The magic rippled through me. _Roses for silence,_ I thought, and the briars began to bloom, tight buds spreading into wild roses, pale petals touched with pink. Trembling, I stepped closer, aware of the sheen of sweat on John's brow and the watching fairy. I plucked one of the blooming roses. "You will tell no one," I told him. His eyes widened, and he pursed his lips to stop me from putting the rose at his mouth, but the little fairy took a bounding step forward and gave him a vicious pinch him with her thorny little fingernails. As he gave a cry of pain, his lips parted, and I slipped the rose between them and staggered away.

The briars fell away and John crumpled to the ground. The rose was gone, the briars gone, the little fairy gone. We were alone in the garden with nothing but the snow, and John staring at me with wide frightened eyes.

"You–" he began, and trailed off with a strangled noise. "What did you do?"

I backed away. The rose had gone, but I half-fancied I could still see it in a certain light, and from a certain angle – the wild rose at his mouth. "Please, John, you must not torment me any more or she will hurt you."

"I will tell my Mama," he said, clawing his scarf away from his throat. "I will tell her what you have done to me."

"Oh yes?" I said, with a sudden flash of boldness. "And what exactly is it that I have done to you?"

"You... You..." He made a choking retching sound, as if the words caught in his throat. There was a flare of terrified panic in his eyes, and he dropped his hands. There was blood on his fingers from where the thorns of the briars had bitten into his flesh, and at the side of it dripping on the snow my courage broke.

I turned and fled back to the house, snowflakes half-blinding me as I ran. I burst through the door, my breath coming fast as I ran up the stairs, and into the nursery, where I collided with Bessie, who was very flustered. "Miss Jane, where on earth have you been?"

"I... I have been outside, Bessie," I said.

She seemed to catch something of my fright, because her harsh voice eased and she pressed her warm hands against my frozen cheeks. "You'll catch your death," she said, softer now. "What were you doing in the garden? You look quite red, as if you've been about some mischief. Have you washed your hands and face this morning?"

"No, Bessie, but–"

"Oh, you troublesome, careless child. Take off your pinafore at once and get ready," she said as she hauled me across to the wash basin to scrub my face and hands. "There is someone here to see you."

"To see me?" I swallowed. "Is it Mr Childermass?"

"Mr Childermass?" She stared at me. "Why on earth would he have come to see you?"

 _Because I have done magic again_ , I thought. Instead, I whispered, "I don't know, Bessie." But who else could it be? I knew no one else. I would have asked who it was, would have demanded to know if Mrs Reed was there, but my thoughts were racing along with my heart, and before I could gather my wits enough to ask Bessie bundled me out of the nursery and had closed the door upon me. I had no choice.

I descended the stairs. This was the first time in three months that I had been called to Mrs Reed's presence, and I could not bring myself to enter the parlour, certain that John had run straight to his mother to tell her what I had done. Only the ringing of the breakfast room bell forced me on, because I could not bear to hear it and wanted to silence it. Even now, I cannot help but shudder at the sound of bells.

With both hands I turned the stiff door handle, and slipped inside. My first impression was that Bessie was wrong, and the visitor was Mr Childermass, for as I curtseyed low, I saw a tall figure in black standing upon the rug. But then I looked closer, and saw this was another man entirely, a gentleman, far more respectable in appearance than the man of business I had met in the kitchen, and much grimmer too, his face harsh and cold as marble.

Mrs Reed sat by the fireside, and beckoned me forward. "This is the little girl I wrote to you about, Mr Brocklehurst. You can see her fairy-blood in her face."

"She does have the look of a fairy, and fairies can be wicked, ungodly things," he said. "What is her age?"

"Ten years."

"So much?" He studied me for some more minutes. "Your name, little girl?"

"Jane Eyre, sir."

"Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?"

I could not answer yes, not after everything that had happened. Not after I had brought the cruel little shadow-creature into Gateshead and deliberately enchanted my cousin. I kept silent, and Mrs Reed shook her head. "Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr Brocklehurst."

He bade me come forward and I stepped across the rug towards him. "There is no sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began. "Especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?"

This at least was a question I could answer. "They go to hell," I said.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?"

"No, sir."

"What must you do to avoid it?"

I thought for a moment. "I should become a practical magician, and travel into Faerie like one of the Aureates, where I shall not die."

"And how do you intend to do that when magic is gone from England and men far wiser and more learned than you are not able to do such a thing? How do you intend to learn magic?" Mr Brocklehurst asked me.

I kept my eyes on the rug, wishing that I had followed the robin through the snow and been away into that place of eternal summer.

"Besides," he said, "Faerie is a very wicked place. They tithe all their children to hell, and only a child with a wicked heart would long to go there. You must pray to God to take away your heart of stone and give you a new, clean heart of flesh. Do you pray, girl, morning and night?"

"I do, sir."

Mrs Reed interrupted. "As you can see, Mr Brocklehurst, the child cannot be trusted. She is capricious and full of spite. I told you in my letter how she pretended to cast a fairy spell upon my son. If you admit her into Lowood school, you must make sure a close eye is kept on her. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst."

At this, to hear myself branded a liar in front of a stranger, and one who would be likely to have some power over me in the future, I felt a sharp stab of pain within my heart. I saw the look the gentleman cast in my direction, saw him fix me as a liar and deceiver, and I was powerless to tell him otherwise. My eyes flooded with tears of shame and humiliation, and I wished, harder than ever, that I had taken that step through the snow and been away.

"She shall be watched, Mrs Reed," he said. "I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers."

"I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects," Mrs Reed continued. "My husband, Mr Reed, was himself a theoretical magician, but his own interest in magic was always of a historical bent. He had no interest whatsoever in fairies, but the girl's father had a particular and very unhealthy obsession with the Other Lands, and I am afraid to say I believe she takes after him in that respect. You must take care, Mr Brocklehurst, particularly if she is allowed to study magic. Especially since..." She hesitated, her face a little paler. "Especially since Lowood School is in the _north_ ," she completed, quickly, "and so within the kingdom of the Raven King where magic is said to be strongest."

"Only the history of magic is taught at Lowood school, madam, and even then only what is necessary to ensure a rounded education. And in my opinion, it is a myth that magic is strongest in the north. I have lived beyond the Trent for thirty years and in all that time I have never seen so much of a sniff of the Raven King other than in the tales of credulous people. John Uskglass, if he was ever anything more than a legend, is long dead and gone."

I wiped away a tear, wondering what he would say if I told him that the Raven King was no more dead than him or Mrs Reed, that I had seen him in the mirror, that one of his ravens had scratched my cheek, and that a magician's man of business had thought I might be able to do magic, enough to put me to the test.

Mrs Reed nodded, a little colour creeping back to her cheeks. "I am relieved to hear you say that, sir. I myself have no great love for magic, and nor, I am glad to say, do my children, but Jane Eyre has always been a fey child. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her position and prospects?"

"You may, madam."

"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst. It has always made me uneasy to have a child with fairy blood beneath my roof, though I always strived never to show it."

"No doubt, madam. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her."

And having rung for his carriage, he departed.

I was left alone with Mrs Reed. Sitting on a low stool a few yards away, I watched her sewing, still stung at how she had talked of my character to Mr Brocklehurst. Some moments passed before she looked up, almost as if she had forgotten I was there, and as her eyes settled on mine her fingers stilled.

"Go out of the room," she ordered. "Return to the nursery."

On instinct, I stood and moved towards the door, but something – perhaps the memory of that little robin vanishing from sight – made me stop. I returned to the window, looked out for a moment on the expanse of snow, on the world that seemed quite unlike the familiar landscape of Gateshead Hall. Then I turned and walked towards her, my hands clenched into tight little fists.

"I am not deceitful," I said. "If I were, I should say I loved you, but I declare I do not love you. I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed. You stole my book, Mrs Reed, the book that belonged to my father, and book theft is a terrible crime. You should be glad that magic is gone from England, and you should pray it never returns."

Mrs Reed had gone very still. Her eyes were cold but in them I saw a flash of fear. "What more have you to say?"

I was shaking now, and it was like that moment when the rain had filled me, only now there was no magic, only fury and hurt and resentment. "I am glad you are no relation of mine," I cried. "I will never call you aunt again as long as I live, and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will tell them you treated me with miserable cruelty and locked me in the red room and stole my book from me. People think you a good woman, but you are not. You are bad and hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful and you are a thief!"

That flash of fear in her eyes had caught light. She looked frightened now, almost as if she was about to cry, and her sewing had slipped from her knee. "Jane, what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? You don't understand these things. Children must be corrected for their faults."

"Deceit is not my fault! There is something wicked in this house, but it is not me. Send me to school, Mrs Reed, for I cannot live here."

"I will indeed send her to school soon," Mrs Reed murmured. She snatched up her work and almost fled, leaving me alone with my victory. As my pounding heart took on a slower pace and my passion subsided, I found myself dizzy from the aftershock of my fury. Glorious though it might have felt at the time, it was a form of madness which had left the lingering taste of ashes in my mouth.

I slipped back into the breakfast room and stepped outside into the frozen world, hot tears on my cheeks. The first time I had done magic, the shivery thrill had been forgotten quickly. This time it was as if a doorway had been opened within my heart and had not quite slammed shut. It was still there, a silvery sensation inside my chest. Every inch of my skin prickled with it. Perhaps it was because the enchantment I had set on John Reed had not been broken.

I did not know whether I should be happy to leave Gateshead or if I should be frightened to go somewhere new, somewhere where I would already be branded a liar thanks to Mrs Reed.

But Lowood School was in the north, and for all Mr Brocklehurst had said magic was not stronger there I was certain he was lying or at the very least mistaken. He had said the Raven King no longer existed, and I knew that was untrue. I shivered at the thought of walking on the same land trodden by the Raven King, of breathing the same air.

I should be glad to leave, I thought, lifting my head and gazing up at the ceaseless sky. Seeing the world beyond the snow had changed everything. If I found I truly hated Lowood, all I had to do was open up a door and escape to Faerie, and at least I would be free of the Reeds. Perhaps I could, if I wished, even become a magician.

And if I left, I thought, the fairy would come with me. As much as I hated the Reeds, I did not want it to hurt them, and I was certain that would be the outcome if I stayed.

Nothing good could ever come of my remaining at Gateshead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ballad sung by Bessie in this chapter is taken from the novel JS&MN.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments are hugely appreciated. I particularly love constructive criticism.


End file.
